


He Who Fights (Dragons) Monsters

by notavodkashot



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestor fic, Bad People Making Worse Choices, M/M, Quadrant Fuckery, court intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Throne will always sit in the Dragon's jaws. But no one ever said anything about <em>whose</em>.</p>
<p>Set in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/38968">Distraitverse</a>, the story of Garfit's rise to power, the fall of his predecessor and Cronus Ampora's roundabout road to become Lord Commander of the Orphaners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Who Fights (Dragons) Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [temporalDecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/gifts).



> Birthday gift for Fi! Early too, for once! Hope you enjoy it, love, I know you do so love your dragon trolls and their silly antics.
> 
> This story will be considerably more poignant once the relevant chapters of _Jetsam_ are posted, I reckon.
> 
> Also, a small note on Garfit's gender: At the time I wrote this story, my understanding of the matter is that they use "they" pronouns for themselves, by the time the main Distrait/Heaven storyline rolls around, but that wasn't always the case. Particularly not while living under Taniwa's thumb. Since they identified as male and used male pronouns for themselves at the point this story takes place, that is what I rolled with. Fi, feel free to smack me if I got it wrong and I'll correct it accordingly. ~~I'm pretty sure you're the only one allowed to consistently misgender your own characters.~~

  


* * *

  


_“It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.”_

  


* * *

  


The old Lord, ancient by all meanings of the word, wrote briskly across the parchment, pausing only to dip his quill in ink, not even once looking up or paying any mind to his descendant. He composed three letters, all several pages long, before he deigned speak at last, tone dry and scornful. 

“You said you had something to say,” he muttered, carefully sealing each letter with the right seal: one with his personal sigil, one with the Empress’ own, and the last one with a blank, square seal. “Yet you don’t seem to be in a hurry to say it.” 

“Forgive me, My Lord,” Garfit murmured, docile, “I did not wish to seem impertinent. I know you’re very busy.” 

“If you didn’t wish to be impertinent, you would have slit your own throat a long time ago,” the old Lord snapped, watching the wax harden in place. “Your very nature is impertinent, has always been. Although your impertinence will never rival your arrogance, presuming I have time to spare for you.” 

“It’s not arrogance to notice the truth and act accordingly,” Garfit bit back, one eyebrow arched. “To do otherwise would be foolish, and I know so very well you do not suffer fools in your House, Lord Imoogi.” 

He was young and bold and terribly unfit to bear the name he’d been blessed with, the old Lord knew. He was soft in ways that shamed his bloodline and petulant about matters that were so far beneath him he shouldn’t have even known about them. But there was no denying the curve of his horns, the tilt of his smirk. Taniwa knew him to be his child, because he could be nothing else but his child. 

“I do not,” he replied, snorting as he picked up a new piece of paper and began a fourth letter. “But I also do not suffer soothsayers. The truth is what we make of it, not some abstract daydream you thought up because you didn’t have something more important to occupy your mind.” 

“I am the most fitting one to be your Heir,” Garfit said, blunt, and Lord Imoogi paused in his writing, paused so long the ink seeped through the parchment to the stack below, and his grip on the quill tightened until it bent and threatened to break. “Mehtar is too soft, Utheyr is too harsh; I am your best choice for an Heir, my lord, and yet you will not name me so.” 

“Mehtar _is_ too soft,” the Lord said, methodically disposing of the quill and the ruined paper. “But cruelty is all too easy to learn, under the right circumstances. And Utheyr _is_ too harsh, but we have no need for him to know true kindness when the pattern is easy enough to replicate and no one will ever know enough to tell the difference. But you,” and the Lord stood up, tall and proud and terrifying, and Garfit resisted the urge to flinch back and press himself against the back of the chair even though the motion was not threatening in itself, “you are the most fitting one to be my Heir, if one were only to count on softness and harshness. You stand perfectly in balance, between the two, but you have a weakness far greater than your brothers, one that has a name and whom you love more than you love your name. Do you wish to be my Heir, Garfit? Truly? Then bring me Cronus’ head, cut by your own hand, and I will appoint you Lord right there and then, with the Empress as my witness.” The Lord tilted his head back, mouth pressed into a disdainful sneer. “But until then, you will speak no more of your claims to my name, or I will tear out your tongue with my own claws.” 

Garfit let out a soft breath, hoping it didn’t sound as shaky as it felt, passing through his teeth. 

“My Lord,” he said, head bowed and then walked away slowly, waiting, with each step, to feel a knife or a dagger or a sword on the skin of his back. But none came, because Lord Imoogi had just managed to kill him, without killing him at all. 

  


* * *

  


Cronus laughed, when Garfit finished recounting his meeting with Lord Imoogi. 

“Should I bend my neck?” He taunted, chewing on his meal with his mouth open, because it irked Garfit, and Cronus could never resist doing anything that’d irk Garfit. “Or would you prefer if I turn my back and closed my eyes?” 

“Your taunts are not welcome,” Garfit hissed, stomping over to take his place at the small table in their shared quarters, and then snarled loudly when Cronus grabbed his hand and pulled him into his lap. “I am not in the mood.” 

“Dear, if I waited until you’re in the mood, I would never actually get laid,” Cronus said, pressing his lips to the edge of the gills on Garfit’s neck. “But then I suppose, if I never got laid, then you’d have no trouble getting your title.” 

“Lord Imoogi wants you dead,” Garfit replied, turning around so he could sink his claws on Cronus’ jaw. “You are not stupid enough to not know how dangerous that is.” 

“Lord Imoogi wants me dead _by your hand_ ,” Cronus laughed, and then grabbed Garfit’s hands and clutched them hard enough to make his bones creak. And then he shoved them down, between them, and Garfit made a low, warning sound in the back of his throat when Cronus leered for all he was worth. “I don’t really feel the threat right now, considering those lovely hands of yours aren’t strangling the neck on my shoulders right now.” 

“Ugh,” Garfit muttered in annoyance, pushing away and ignoring the way Cronus’ claws left welts on his arms as he did. “I can barely bear to look at you right now.” 

“Then don’t.” Cronus stood up, stretching like a cat by the fire. “Get dressed, we’ll go hunting for a night or two.” He tilted back the wine in his cup, smirking. “Killing things always makes you agreeable.” 

Garfit had no suitable rebuke for that. 

  


* * *

  


“He is not wrong, you know.” 

Taniwa gazed at his eldest child with a look that implied his rather short patience was in even shorter stock than usual. Mehtar shrugged elegantly, and the thick, heavy rings hanging from his fins jingled as he did. He finished pouring his Lord wine and then, after a pause to see if he was ordered otherwise, served his own cup. He cut his wine with water, but didn’t even offer to do the same for Taniwa, because he’d been serving his Lord long enough to know Lord Imoogi didn’t drink to quench his thirst. 

“I _am_ too soft,” Mehtar went on, taking a seat across the wide expanse of his Lord’s desk. “The Gods did not see fit to give me much spite, to temper my kindness.” And then, because Taniwa said nothing to argue the truth, Mehtar smiled wryly. “I would be a terrible Lord and bring great shame to our name. And Utheyr—“ 

“Utheyr will never be a Lord,” Taniwa snapped, emptying half his cup in one long gulp. “I will name Cronus Lord Imoogi before I let that arrogant, ruthless _beast_ wear my sign.” 

“So you have a child too gentle to bear the yoke of your title, and a child too monstrous to be worthy of your name,” Mehtar said, no rancor to his words. “You can see why I think Garfit was not wrong, my Lord. He _is_ the one best suited for the title. Unless you wish to wait a millennium or two, for a new child to be hatched.” 

“Would you bow to your brother?” Taniwa asked, almost snarling in contempt. “Would you bend the knee to someone who does not hold the Empire dearest and foremost in his mind? Would you give your life, not for our cause, but for Cronus fucking Ampora, your brother’s standing whore?” 

“He’s not a whore, Lord Imoogi,” Mehtar said sternly, one eyebrow arched, “whores get paid.” 

“What is he, then?” Taniwa snarled. “He sits at your brother’s right. He shares his bed and his table, and he refuses steadily to die and let Garfit grow on his own. He cripples him a little more, every night he doesn’t die.” 

“He’s his brother,” Mehtar replied, serene. “Which in a way makes him _my_ brother, too.” 

“I should have left him on that shore, when I found them,” Taniwa scoffed as he finished his wine. Mehtar moved to refill his cup without having to be asked. “Or I should have killed him then and be done with it. I was foolish enough to think Garfit was worthy enough to go through the same trials I did, to be a true Lord, the kind the Empire hasn’t seen in millennia.” 

“You didn’t spare the child just so Garfit would kill him,” Mehtar snorted, giving his Lord a pointed look. “You spared him because it was the kind thing to do. You only came up with a use for him afterwards, to spite yourself.” When Taniwa glared, Mehtar remained unmoved. “You are Lord Imoogi, the Dragon Lord. I am your Heir, your flesh and blood. Spite and kindness run through our veins, like blood flows in others. I might have little spite in me, my Lord, as little as you have kindness left, but still enough to not allow you the comfort of lies.” He sighed loudly, when the glare remained. “You would see your line crumble into dust, you would be the Dragon who snapped his jaws shut, rather than let Garfit become Lord Imoogi.” 

“I will not recant my command,” Taniwa snarled disdainfully, standing up and walking over to the fireplace. “Garfit needs only present Cronus’ head, and I will name him Lord.” 

“He would order you killed, as soon as you made the announcement,” Mehtar said, staring at his Lord’s back. 

“I know,” Taniwa snorted, smirking at the flames and seeing in them things Mehtar would never understand. “But he will never kill Cronus, and he will never be Lord Imoogi.” 

“But he will still murder you, if you kill Cronus yourself,” Mehtar warned, not liking the tilt of his Lord’s smirk. 

“Of course he would, that’s why I will not kill him myself.” 

“My Lord—“ 

“You named him your brother, did you not?” Taniwa smiled, a nasty, cruel smile that made Mehtar’s stomach twist unpleasantly. “So I will use him like I’d use you, or any of your brothers.” He looked at his Heir and reveled in the anger in his face. “Because I am Lord Imoogi, and that’s what being Lord Imoogi _means_.” 

Mehtar, who at five thousand and sixty eight knew very well what it meant to be Lord Imoogi, shook his head and took his leave, head full of troubled thoughts. Lord Imoogi let him, because in five thousand and sixty eight sweeps, Mehtar had not once allowed those trouble thoughts to spill from his mouth, and for all his faults, for all his kindness, the boy was too smart to change that now. 

  


* * *

  


“Makara has become a problem.” 

Cronus perked up at the words, unable to contain the smirk on his face; he didn’t like the Grand Highblood and though he tried, he’d never been very good at keeping that dislike a secret. At his side, Garfit’s reaction was much more subdued: prudent interest, guarded. Taniwa rolled the cup in his hand, considering how to follow that statement. It was treason, of course. Kurloz Makara was the Empress’ moirail. With the unrest festering in the Empire, his flock of warrior-priests was a necessary force to keep the peace. And the Empress adored him, gave him anything he wanted, no matter how terrible or crude. It was treason to speak of him that way, for any other troll, but not for Taniwa Imoogi, who was closest and dearest to the Empress still, than her garish clown. 

“You need only speak the words, my Lord,” Utheyr growled, eyes gleaming with the prospect of bloodshed and slaughter. 

Taniwa feigned disinterest to hide away his annoyance. Utheyr never took kindly to being chastised for things he didn’t understand, and Taniwa had better things to do, than butt heads with him. 

“Perhaps a more moderate approach,” Mehtar said, before Utheyr could press his offer into becoming a demand. “A kinder approach,” he added, poignantly. 

“No,” Taniwa said flatly, expression severe. “Makara understands nothing of kindness and would take it for weakness instead. No,” he repeated and then fixed his eyes on Cronus, “we need a more creative approach to this.” 

Cronus was the last one to notice the attention had shifted to him; Garfit was the first. He bristled very quietly, very softly, and in his eyes was all Taniwa needed to reaffirm his conviction that he would never be a Lord. 

“Please tell me you don’t actually expect me to kill the bloody son of a bitch,” Cronus croaked, hunching back with his fins folded at each side of his face. “Because I’m good. I’m _really_ good. But I’m nowhere near _that_ good.” 

“You’re not good at all, period,” Taniwa snapped, sour-faced, “but it’s good fortune this time no-good is exactly what we need.” 

Cronus opened his mouth to retort something dumb and crass he mistook for wit, like he always did – and after he did, Taniwa would roar at him in the quietest whisper and send him squealing away, hiding behind Garfit, because Cronus liked to pretend he forgot who the true dragon was, in their midst, but he never forgot enough to lose his head – but instead he turned to Garfit, questioning. Garfit nodded tersely, and Taniwa thinned his lips in disapproval by the end of the whole exchange, which took less than five seconds to complete. 

“I would serve,” Cronus said, after a moment, the words awkward on his tongue and his expression wry, “if my Lord commanded me.” 

“He does,” Taniwa replied simply. “Makara has a matesprit, a tame fool he’s covered in iron and blood, and who never leaves his side. You will make him leave his side.” 

“My Lord?” Cronus stared, wide-eyed, realizing this wasn’t what he’d attempted to sign up for, but it was too late now, to turn back. 

“Makara will smell you or us or any of ours, from a mile away. But his tame fool has been at his side for centuries now and still knows not how to lie.” Taniwa narrowed his eyes. “Makara broke his own law, for that tame fool. You will sink your claws in him, and make him dance your tune,” which went without saying, would be in all honestly _Taniwa’s_ tune, “and when the time comes, Makara will dance with him, and not even wonder where the music came from.” 

“I would have thought you’d send Garfit for that,” Mehtar mused gently, even though in his eyes something severe coiled and grew. “I mean no offence, Cronus, but I trust you to kill a troll, not to seduce him.” 

Cronus spluttered and puffed up, but it was Garfit who answered, with an arm on Cronus’ elbow, holding him in place. 

“Truth only offends fools, sweet brother,” he said, with his best smile, “and we all know Lord Imoogi suffers no fools in his hall.” 

“If you don’t need me I don’t see why I’m here,” Utheyr muttered sullenly, abruptly, and pushed back his chair so hard it clattered on the stone floor, as he tried to storm away. 

The walls crackled violet. Lightning danced over their heads and down their spines. Lord Imoogi did not raise his voice. 

“You are here, not because I need you, but because I commanded you to,” he said, looking bored and unruffled, even though the stench of burnt ozone would not leave for hours and they were certain the earth itself trembled at the touch of his power. “You will sit and you will be quiet, and when it pleases me to give you something to do, you will do it, even if that something is picking your nose.” 

“Of course, my Lord,” Utheyr muttered, low and bitter, but not cowed. 

Cronus thought Utheyr was mad, not cowing before his Lord. Mad and dangerous, but better on their side than against them. He took care not to look at the older seadweller in the eye, focusing instead on the tiniest twist to Garfit’s mouth. That twist meant trouble, and even he knew better than to invoke it. But he was not Lord Imoogi, he supposed there were perks that came with the title, like the freedom to harass his children as he saw fit. 

“Cronus will court the clown’s fool,” Taniwa summarized, then smiled a tad unkindly. “Black, I should think, rather than pale. Far too many people have seen Garfit pulling you back from some drunken brawl now, for that lie to hold any weight.” Cronus did not look particularly pleased with the idea, but he was smart enough to not say anything about it. “Garfit will head down to the Southern Capital,” Taniwa went on, and that twist in Garfit’s mouth deepened enough to be seen, but still no one said anything about it. 

“Will I?” Garfit asked innocently, claws digging into Cronus’ arm rather painfully. 

“You will,” Taniwa declared in a tone that booked no objections, “The South is superstitious, and that is a blessing, in this case. Find a cult suitable to become the State Religion, or make up your own, if you want, but when I give the signal you must be ready. Makara’s worship will not extend beyond his troops.” 

“I was under the impression he did not allow it outside his troops,” Garfit pointed out helpfully, eyes wide and innocent, fooling no one. 

“He doesn’t,” Taniwa agreed, ignoring Garfit’s veiled taunts, “but their faith gives his men pride and the whole damn Empire knows it. When we’re done, it will only bring them shame.” 

“As you command, Lord Imoogi,” Garfit said graciously, murder in his eyes. 

“There are whispers of an Heiress, among the Orphaners,” Taniwa said, moving onto the next subject without preamble. “Utheyr will ride with them and find out the truth, and if the girl is worthy, he will stay and guard her until the time is right.” 

Utheyr didn’t look particularly enthused by the prospect of babysitting a child, but he said nothing and nodded gravely. He’d been scolded once, already, he wasn’t in a hurry to get another one. And there was a subtle promise of slaughter, to his task, one he didn’t exactly mind. 

“As for you,” Taniwa said, looking pointedly at Mehtar, “my Heir,” and though no one actually flinched, Cronus would have waged his right hand everyone wanted to, “there have been reports of a horde southeast of the undead wasteland. A horde that does not steal or pillage or kill or rape.” 

“Pretty big failure of a horde, then,” Cronus bit out under his breath, before he could stop himself, and in penance bore Garfit’s claws digging into his arm until they were bloodied. 

“They follow a preacher, who preaches no religion,” Taniwa explained, and then smiled humorlessly, “so that is perhaps a failure of a preacher too, but failure or not there’s thirteen thousand trolls roaming the countryside for his cause, and I for once would sleep better knowing what they’re up to.” 

It was Cronus humble opinion – which he shared with all those who knew Lord Imoogi in some capacity – that Taniwa Imoogi didn’t sleep. He probably laid back on his soft bedding and stared at the ceiling as he contemplated his power and his might and how best to amuse himself with both. Cronus had known him all his life – literally, all his life – and had learned from him all he knew that was worth knowing. He knew Lord Imoogi crowed about his duty like the sunrise beasts did each morning, as dawn approached, but deep down in the private antechambers of his soul, Cronus didn’t believe him. He couldn’t. It went against his nature, that devotion to duty above devotion to one’s self, to common sense. But then, he wasn’t Imoogi. Perhaps he was not meant to understand. 

“Shall I disband this horde, my Lord?” Mehtar asked, not hiding the fact the thought gave him no pleasure. 

He seemed surprised by the answer he received: 

“No,” Lord Imoogi said, and smiled a nasty, cruel smile, “I want you to join them. Break bread with them. Learn all there is to know about them.” Mehtar’s surprise melted into resignation, as his Lord went on: “And when the time is right, be ready to obey my command.” 

“I shall, my Lord,” Mehtar said, bowing respectfully as if grateful for a great gift. 

“Then go,” Taniwa ordered them, standing up. “Go and do your duty, for the glory of the Empress and the preservation of the Empire.” 

“Thus we serve,” Garfit, Mehtar and Utheyr chorused back, slights forgotten as the words came easy to them, proud and strong, “and may the throne always sit in the Dragon’s jaws.” 

Cronus took no part in that oath, told himself he wanted no part of that oath. He wasn’t Imoogi. He didn’t have millennia upon millennia of legacy flowing through his veins, the weight of trollkind itself on his shoulders. He was a sly kid – he admitted to himself, and only to himself, in the privacy of his mind, that he was a kid, because he couldn’t be anything else against the centuries weighting down Garfit’s siblings – of barely two hundred. He didn’t belong here, of his own merits, he belonged here because Garfit was the other half of his life, the good and the bad and the fucking worst. 

He wasn’t Imoogi. He could be arrogant and selfish and crass if he wanted to, because there was only Garfit at his side to complain about it, instead of the ghosts of an entire bloodline breathing down his neck. 

But still. 

One couldn’t look and not wonder about what-if’s and might-have-been’s. 

  


* * *

  


Utheyr taught the girl how to fight and how to kill and how to enjoy the taste of blood under one’s tongue. 

She was going to die, he knew, because she was worthy of being taught, but nowhere near strong enough to survive the Empress. She didn’t know that and Utheyr didn’t tell her, not out of misguided kindness, like Garfit or Mehtar might have done, because he didn’t have it in himself to be kind, but because it would spoil the game. She was a lively little thing, full of dreams and hopes and a fire in her soul that pushed her to train harder and be stronger every day. It still wouldn’t be enough to change her fate, but there was nothing quite as boring as a soul resigned to die. 

So Utheyr guarded the Heiress and let her believe she was going to win, because it was a good way as any to pass the time. 

“What’s the Empress like?” The girl would ask him, from time to time, eyes wide and grey and young, drinking up everything he gave her and storing it in her soul like something precious. 

Utheyr sat with her on the handrail of his ship, so deep in the Empress’ Keep, that not even Orphaners ventured into those waters. Far below them, in the dark where no light could reach, the Imperial lusus slumbered lazily, waiting for her child to return to her. The young Heiress had invited him to join her in her city of quartz and marble, to meet her sisters and see her home. Utheyr had laughed and said no one but those of Imperial blood may enter those halls. She’d been disappointed and unafraid of letting him know it. She was a pouty creature, capricious. She spoke her mind, and he pretended to care about it because he was meant to keep her safe until the Empress judged her old enough to die. 

“Monstrous,” Utheyr would reply, each time she asked, solemn and dark, eyes narrowed, “like nothing you’ve ever known.” 

“When I’m Empress,” the girl would retort, over and over again, as if repetition alone was enough to change the truth, “I will not be a monster and my people will love me, truly love me. You’ll see.” 

And then Utheyr would shove her overboard, laughing as she shrieked all the way down until she vanished under the waves. 

“You’ll never be Empress,” he always told her, long after she was gone and could no longer hear him, “and you should be glad for it.” 

  


* * *

  


For a while, Cronus woke up each night, surprised to be still alive. Garfit was across the Empire, and so was Mehtar, the only other soul in the vast damn world who gave a shit about him. Lord Imoogi wanted him dead, after all. He should be, by all rights. And so each night was a tentative gift which he endeavored not to squander away. He did his duty and served his Lord and circled Makara’s matesprit like a shark drunk on blood. 

Then he spent a few weeks expecting to wake up, alive and unharmed, but with news that Garfit was dead. Or lost. Or poisoned. Or _something_. It annoyed him, worrying about Garfit. It was tiresome and unproductive and made him broody and short-tempered enough the servants took great pains to avoid him while he sulked. 

And then he decided: _fuck Garfit, I’m my own troll, and fuck Lord Imoogi too, the big drunken git, if he wants me dead he can damn well kill me himself_. Which, in honor to the truth, might have been the wine talking, rather than some earth-shattering realization about his own courage and endurance. Wine was poor substitute for Garfit, whom Cronus had stubbornly decided he didn’t miss anymore, but leagues better than an empty block. Solitude did not come easy to him, not after centuries of Garfit always at his elbow, with a smack or a kiss or a smartass remark. 

So after half a sweep of agonizing about it, and drinking about it, and agonizingly drinking about it, Cronus turned his full attention to Makara’s matesprit and his own dubious mission. 

He discovered Lord Imoogi had not been wrong, calling him a tame fool. In fact, he had been _kind_ to do so. Zahhak was a monument to stupidity the like Cronus had never seen before. And he’d grown up picking fights with Garfit just because he’d been bored. He was docile and quiet and submissive in a way that fit him very poorly, considering the obscene girth of his shoulders and the strength in his hands. He was the devil with a bow and a smith’s most bitter enemy with a sword – he broke them all, smashed them to pieces against his opponents, no matter the make or the cost, and all smiths in the Seat wanted nothing more than to prove themselves and forge him a sword he would not shatter in his monstrous grip – but he abhorred the sight of blood above all things. He apologized for everything and spoke up for nothing. Cronus was sure he’d shat turds with more of a spine, than him. 

And he was to be his kismesis, Lord Imoogi had commanded it. 

So Cronus clenched his teeth and tried, subtle at first, to woo the spineless turd pile, and then not so much, when his efforts went unnoticed. And then he was obvious, to the point his advances were the water that kept the rumor mill in the court spinning. And still Zahhak tolerated his company with the same blank expression on his face, replied curtly and vaguely to all questions, ignored all insults, and looked at him with dull-witted eyes that betrayed nothing. Left with no other options – failing Lord Imoogi was not an option, it was a death wish, and Cronus had promised Garfit he’d outlive the smug bastard, after all – he sank to the lowest of the low, the most insane, the most outrageous thing he could have done. 

He mocked the Grand Highblood. 

“Does he take it as a challenge?” He asked, one bright, hot summer night, during yet another mind-numbingly boring walk through the docks along the bay. Zahhak didn’t even bother to make an inquiring noise. He kept looking, straight ahead, expression closed. “Fucking you, I mean. Does he take it as a challenge? See if he can put a fucking expression on that godawful marble mask you call a face?” 

Zahhak turned blue, color blooming high on those chiseled cheekbones of his, as he spluttered and choked on his tongue. Cronus smirked like a snake, since he was not a dragon, but he’d learned smirks and sneers from them. 

“I mean so would I,” he went on, walking and talking, resisting the urge to turn and guard his back from Zahhak’s dumbstruck rage, “but I do actually know what I’m doing, so there’s that.” 

“You insolent—“ 

Cronus kissed him, then, slipping from under the hands aiming to choke the life out of him. He kissed him with lip and tongue and teeth and all the things Garfit hated most. He kissed him until he went out of breath. He kissed him until he felt faint. And then kissed him some more, for good measure. 

“Does he fuck you like a whore?” He asked, grinning, as all around him Zahhak fell to pieces, “because I would fuck you like a whore. Would you like that?” 

Zahhak whimpered and snarled in frustration, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t the steady, dedicated passion Cronus would need, to manipulate the moron into doing what Lord Imoogi wanted, of course. But it was a start. It was better than indifference. 

It was fun, he convinced himself, and began to play in earnest from then on. 

  


* * *

  


Mehtar liked the mutant. 

He shouldn’t have, but he did. He liked his face and his words and his great thirst for justice. He was fun to tease, because no one seemed to have teased him very often before Mehtar arrived to join his march. He was kind, and his kindness found an echo in Mehtar’s. And Mehtar hated himself, for liking the mutant and his speeches and his great dreams about peace, because he knew he’d betray him in the end. He saw it looming above them all, like a cruel scythe swinging back and forth, ever so slightly, ever so patiently, but falling all the same. 

He liked the mutant, and he thought of his brothers and realized for the first time he could hate his Lord, for tasking him this. 

“You always do this, you and all the others,” the woman said, startling him, and he turned around to find her at the opening of his tent, a tiny sliver of a rustblood with massive swirling horns atop her head. “You fret and complain, but in the end you always do what needs to be done.” 

“My Lady,” Mehtar said respectfully, bowing to her, because he knew Her, if not _her_ personally. “What can I do for you?” 

“Nothing, for a change,” the Handmaid replied – who was but one of dozens, though he couldn’t possibly know that – shrugging elegantly, “it’s just rare to see a morose Imoogi. You are all so very prone to act like the dragons you claim to be, all fire and wrath and pride, but so very rarely sulk.” 

“And yet in the end, we always do what needs to be done,” Mehtar mused, eyebrows arched. “Do we not?” 

“You do,” and her smile softened, almost compassionate. Mehtar had read about the Handmaid, about her cruelty and her knowledge and the consequences for defying her will. He’d never read about her kindness. But then, no one truly knew the Handmaids, personally, only the myth they had built around themselves. “What’s your name, boy?” 

“Mehtar, my Lady,” he said, and remembered his manners, standing up and offering her the bread and the waterskin he had, for lack of anything better. He was among rebels, after all, not in the luxurious halls of his Lord. “If it pleases you?” 

“Save it for yourself,” the Handmaid laughed, “I will not be bringing more for another week or so.” At his shocked look, she giggled. “Well, I can’t very well let them starve, can I? But they can’t get too comfortable here, or they’ll never go where they need to go.” 

“Lord Imoogi—“ Mehtar tried to blurt out, wondering if she could protect him from his Lord’s wrath, if she could save the mutant and his flock. 

“Will do what needs to be done,” the Handmaid shrugged, apologetic and cryptic, and Mehtar’s expression fell, “and so will I. Take heart, I’ve seen the End, the bargain will not be in vain.” 

“I understand,” Mehtar said submissively, bowing his head to her. 

“You really don’t,” the Handmaid chuckled, her laughter kind, rather than mocking. “But it’s not your place to understand.” 

  


* * *

  


There were no news of Garfit or Mehtar, and Cronus made a habit to not be alone for long, lest the Grand Highblood decided to personally judge the pretender to his matesprit’s scorn. He was not suicidal enough to wear Lord Imoogi’s sign, but he fashioned himself a silver pin of a dragon with amethysts for eyes and he wore it on his breast, day in and day out, careful to not let Lord Imoogi see it. It was good enough. He wasn’t a dragon, would never be a dragon, but he was not one to slight, either. 

“Your silver dragon will not protect you forever,” Zahhak told him, one night, lying on the soft bedding as he watched him dress. “Not against the Grand Highblood.” 

“I’m going to tell you something,” Cronus said, wrestling the belt around his hips, “because you’re an idiot, but you’re an idiot I enjoy riding more than a proper mount, even without the saddle.” Zahhak bristled, outraged, like Cronus knew he would. He might not have his devotion or his loyalty, but he knew well by now, which buttons to push to get what reaction, and that was good enough for Lord Imoogi. It was probably better than the old bastard thought he’d be able to do, even. “There are many trolls in the Empire worth fearing, don’t think just because you chose the bloody biggest means you chose the best to hide behind.” 

“The Grand Highblood is the most feared troll in the Empire,” Zahhak rumbled, eyes narrowed, “after the Empress, of course.” 

“The peasants in the villages fear the Grand Highblood,” Cronus snorted, disdainful. “The slaves in the mines and the fields fear the Grand Highblood. The Lords in the court fear the Grand Highblood.” He sneered. “But only because they’re fools.” 

“My Lord is—“ 

“Very fearsome, yes,” Cronus interrupted, laughing unkindly in the back of his throat. “But I will tell you something else, something I learned a long time ago. Only fools fear trolls who make a spectacle of being feared. Only fools fear a clown. Smart trolls know who they should really fear.” Cronus arched an eyebrow, expression vicious. “You’re not smart, Zahhak, and neither is most of the fucking Empire, but I’ll tell _you_ , because you’re a good fuck and your stupidity amuses me: Do not fear the Clown standing at the Empress’ right, fear the Dragon brooding at her left.” 

“Lord Imoogi is old,” Zahhak said stupidly, and Cronus resisted the urge to slap him, if only because that might result only in a broken wrist. 

“Yes, you stupid oaf,” he snarled, “but how do you reckon he got to be that fucking old?” 

Before Zahhak could come up with another inane thing to say, Cronus’ favorite servant barged through the door without bothering to knock. Zahhak choked on a squeak of surprise, and Cronus would have laughed at the ridiculous sound, but the look on her face sent ice through his veins. 

“Pardon,” she said, and didn’t mean it, not really, “but Lord Imoogi commands you at his side, sir.” 

She didn’t need to add _immediately_ to that, because it went without saying. One didn’t linger, when Lord Imoogi gave an order. Cronus had the scars to prove he’d learned that lesson, at least. 

“Of course he does,” Cronus muttered darkly, throwing a coat over his shoulders and stalking away without looking back. 

Zahhak was gone, when he came back, but by then he’d expected it. He’d have heard the news and gone back to his matesprit about it. _Good_ , Cronus thought unkindly, rummaging about for the strongest wine he hid in his quarters, _at least then I won’t have to talk about it_. 

Utheyr had found an Heiress, and he’d guarded her until the time was right. That time had passed and the Heiress had died. Cronus had never seen a succession duel before. He reckoned he never wanted to see another one again. 

He toasted to Garfit, the smug son of a bitch, and conceded to miss him until the hangover settled in. 

  


* * *

  


Garfit had not missed Cronus. Not really. Not _often_. 

He had work to do and a wound deep enough in his pride that he couldn’t allow himself to stop or fail. He dug out all the history he could, all the folklore and traditions he could unearth, and worked steadily to bind them into a cohesive whole that would stand scrutiny provided the scrutiny wasn’t too deep. He found a series of pawns adequate to the task and taught them how to speak the words and make them sound holy. Out of spite for Lord Imoogi’s austere nature, he crafted a faith of vibrant colors and cherished beauty. He worked and he worked, and filled up his block with books and parchments and gospels and psalms. 

He told himself, those very rare times he did miss Cronus – missed him viscerally, that crass bastard who never knew when to shut his mouth – that they were seadwellers. That they would live for millennia, together, and a few sweeps apart would be nothing in the long run. They’d forget it, in a century or two. 

Only, at the end of the decade they’d been scattered away, the world conspired to make history and ensure they would never forget, no matter how hard they tried. 

After it was all over, the Heiress and the mutant and the treason and the riots, they sat again in the long, ornate table and waited their Lord’s command. Garfit studied his brothers carefully, familiarizing himself again with the subtle things he’d not allowed himself to miss, in his long sojourn. The streets in the Seat were unrest and bloodshed, so different from the old giant slumbering beneath the halls of the Southern Capital, where nothing happened because everything had already happened long ago and no one had the will to make it happen again. 

“Makara wants blood,” Taniwa said at length, almost pensive. “And the Empress is not very inclined to deny him.” 

Makara had lost his matesprit to the disaster that had been the mutant’s execution. Makara did not want blood, Garfit thought somberly. Makara wanted war and slaughter the like the world hadn’t seen in eons. 

“Neither will I,” Taniwa said, grimacing. “He’s a problem and he will be dealt with, but the time is no longer right. Rest and prepare,” he added, looking at them with disdain and disappointment he was too bitter to hide, “I will call for you soon.” 

  


* * *

  


They were given the jadeblood, ostensibly as an honor. Garfit knew his Ancestor better than that. 

Utheyr had been tasked to look after the Heiress, and he’d made her into a fine prey for the Empress to kill. Mehtar had been commanded to join the mutant’s cause, and his efforts had ended with the preacher hanging from the executioner’s post. 

But all of Garfit’s careful planning had been for nothing, in the end, and the pointlessness of his task was a failure in itself. All because despite the fact Cronus had wormed his way into Zahhak’s bed, the fool had betrayed them all and left with one of the prizes the Empress and the Grand Highblood had meant to enjoy. Worse, Cronus had missed the execution, preferring instead to spend the night fucking Garfit against every solid surface on his – their – quarters, than enjoying the spectacle the Empress had to carefully prepared. And Garfit had let him, because Garfit didn’t give a rat’s ass about some mutant freak who preached love and kindness and tolerance, not after a decade playing the part of the pious saint. 

Truth be told, even if Cronus had been there, it wouldn’t have made a difference. The way Mehtar told it, it was serendipity at its finest, and nothing could stand in the way of that. But Lord Imoogi had been angry to see things fall into place that way, and he’d seen fit to blame them for it. He’d offered Garfit his lordship for Cronus’ head again and Garfit had very politely declined, trying to hide how deep the insult cut. 

So now they were saddled with a doe-eyed jadeblood slave who looked at them expecting torments they didn’t know how to provide. Cronus kept running into her, forgetting she was there, and swearing under his breath every time he did. He ignored her, because his pride would not let him be cruel to her, not when he styled himself a fearsome warrior in the privacy of his own mind. It was no fun to fight someone who couldn’t fight back, and Garfit found himself dryly amused by Cronus’ roundabout, selfish kindness and the sheer confusion it caused in their captive. 

For his part, Garfit entertained himself adorning the woman in fine silk and expensive gold trinkets that she bore with little protest but no enjoyment. If they were meant to be seen with her, no matter where they went and what they did, she should at least be nice to look at. Lord Imoogi allowed them no ostentations for themselves, no expensive displays of wealth and power, not even use of their blood color in their clothes. So Garfit piled all the things he wanted for himself on her, and smiled wryly when she looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, silently inviting him to fulfill her expectations about his cruelty. He had Mehtar’s face, after all, she would never look at him with anything but thinly veiled contempt for a betrayal he didn’t commit – but would have, if the orders had been his and not his brother’s. 

And so the sweeps rolled onto each other, one tedious, boring task after another, completed without question or delay. Lord Imoogi called on them – always together, him and Cronus, always falling in tandem upon any prey they were given – sparingly, favoring Mehtar or Utheyr with insulting frequency. Mehtar carried still the mantle of Heir, for all it became increasingly obvious he’d much rather not, and Utheyr remained beastly and monstrous and smug, like it was his hatchright to be. 

Status quo reigned supreme in their lives, a dull content that Garfit despised because it could very well become happiness, if only he’d let it. He wasn’t quite sad, when it collapsed, but he could have been and that in itself told him everything he needed to know. 

  


* * *

  


Lord Taniwa Imoogi had been named Lord under the reign of Galene Peixes, Her Imperious Radiance, six thousand sweeps before Meenah Peixes walked out of the sea and killed her with a frightened look on her face. He had been old, when the child Empress crawled from under the bulk of that regal, hallowed corpse, which even then possessed beauty so stunning the world had never seen the like of it again, since. He’d been old, then, and yet still remembered how to be kind. He had approached the shivering child, paying no mind to the blood staining her hands and her face, and kissed her fingers as he vowed his loyalty to her. Fifteen thousand sweeps separated him from that night, now, and they weighted down on his shoulders, along with the eight thousand he had lived in the service of her predecessor, but still his spine refused to bow. 

Twenty three thousand five hundred and seventy nine sweeps, Taniwa mused darkly, drinking sweet plum wine with his supper. Only Empresses had lived longer than him, and all of them were long gone now. It was a monstrous number, age so tightly spun together it was a miracle he hadn’t gone mad yet. He had been tempted. His true bloodsworn Empress had died, many sweeps ago, taking with her the glory of her smile and the soft echoes of her laughter. Galene had not been kind, not really, but she had been wise. She had been well-learned and soft-spoken and patient and devious in ways that Taniwa was still only barely learning to understand, so long after she was gone. Galene laughed easily and was slow to anger, and under her rule Alternia flourished. But under her rule trolls forgot they were free because it pleased the Empress to see them free, and their arrogance damned them all, once Galene’s sweet voice and mild justice were gone, and all they had left was Meenah’s wrath and the pride that forbade her to forget a slight. 

Taniwa was old and withered, yearning for peace and yet not selfish enough to choose it over the wellbeing of his realm. He was not made to serve an Empress like Meenah Peixes, someone who was truly hardened beneath her love of flamboyant stupidity and amusing silliness. She needed someone strong and kind and cunning, to soften her blows so that trollkind might still endure her, but who would not bend under her command, who knew to make her like his council, rather than see it as a muzzle to struggle against. 

Mehtar was kind, Utheyr was strong and Garfit was cunning, but from the three of them, Taniwa would not be able to make a single Lord worth serving Meenah Peixes, the Empress who sat on her gilded throne and laughed like bells drenched in blood. Her Imperious Condescension was an Empress of change, determined to bend the Empire to suit her whims, rather than the other way around. She pushed for technology and advancement, preparing for terrible things that Taniwa had no desire to live long enough to see. She needed her Empire pacified and docile, ready to follow her wherever her fancy took her. Taniwa knew Alternia would not be enough for her, once she brought it all to heel and broke trollkind down until it didn’t remember that it hadn’t always bowed so deeply. 

What his children lacked would kill them, in the long run, of that Taniwa was sure. 

But he had no other children left to test, no other hopes to bet his legacy on. They lived long, the Dragon Lords; it was their curse as well as their boon. They were to shoulder the burden of their Empress, to council and shelter and never leave unattended. But they seldom lived long enough to serve two Empresses. Taniwa did not wish to be the first to serve a third. He’d had many children, before the three that still lived. He’d had them wise and he’d had them foolish, strong and meek, spiteful and kind. But they had all died, one way or another. He had no choice, but to make do with his ill-fitting children and somehow forge them into something that might endure after he was gone. 

And so he sent Mehtar to the North, that unforgiving, ruthless expanse of grassland and snow, where cities never lasted long, so he may learn the harshness from the best master Taniwa knew: the land itself. He gave his eldest and Heir a fine sword to wield and commanded him to pacify the hordes of scavengers and thieves that nested deep in the wildness of the North and threatened sedition. Mehtar took it gracefully, thanked his Lord Ancestor for the honor to serve him, and when he met Taniwa’s eyes with his own, Taniwa saw a spark of spite ignite bright and terrible and knew he had done the right thing. 

Then he sent Utheyr to apprentice himself to the Retainer of the Brooding Caverns, to learn the value of life in the cradle of trollkind, or at least the patience to tame his own temper. Taniwa did not like the Retainer, with her proud sneer and her disdain for the politics that governed all other trolls. She was a sister of sorts, to him and his kind: her line went unbroken all the way to the beginning, to the very first that carried that title, just like his own did. But she called it a myth, a folktale, an allegory for the horrors of the First War that saw the First Empire born. Taniwa knew it was history, because he’d read the parchments, copies of copies of copies a thousand times over, but faithful all the same. Because the first hand that put the words down had been the hand of Lord Gunnar Imoogi, and the words spoke only of Lord Alston Imoogi, his deeds and his life and the legacy he left behind. No child of their blood, no matter how stubborn, how spiteful, how cruel, would dare change a word in those lines. Taniwa had rewritten the pages himself, preserved them so they would remain after he was gone, and he had felt the weight of history on his wrist, as he held the quill. She should have been his sister, and perhaps her predecessors and his own had been siblings, once, but there was no love lost between Lord Imoogi and the Retainer. Utheyr had accepted the task – presumed his acceptance mattered at all, Taniwa remembered disdainfully – and never realized what his service to the Retainer had cost his Ancestor. It was tradition that jadebloods be left undisturbed by the comings and goings of politics and war. In less than a sweep it would be law. Taniwa would see to it and the Retainer would sneer and be smug, having built an Empire of her own in the bowels of the earth, with the Empress’ blessing and his own. 

But Garfit still remained in Taniwa’s hall. And so did Cronus. Mehtar was kind, and so Taniwa endeavored to teach him cruelty. Utheyr was ruthless, and so Taniwa plotted to teach him enough patience to feign kindness if he would not master kindness itself. But Garfit was cunning, and for all Taniwa despised his youngest for his devotion to a craven, lewd creature like Cronus Ampora, Taniwa was no fool and in no hurry to die, not without having settled his affairs in order first at least. 

He was too old for blunders, he mused darkly, as he finished his meal. 

Garfit was too dangerous to be taught the lessons he so sorely needed. Garfit needed to have his claws torn out, if not be put down for good. But Taniwa refused to have him killed outright, if not for him, for the sake of all those children he’d seen die already. 

“Who among the Orphaners is the most savage?” He asked the walls, pushing the plate away and refilling his cup. “Who among them would kill, regardless of rank or status, for the simple pleasure of the slaughter?” 

“None, my Lord,” the walls replied with a soft, melodious voice, and then the owner of said voice stepped from the walls and its shadows, coming to stand before him. “But they’re proud, of their rank and their prowess, and with the right push, any one of them will do it.” 

“You have something in mind, my dear?” He asked, one eyebrow arched, and chuckled as the woman offered only a half shrug as answer. “Of course you do, why would I keep you around, if you didn’t?” 

Taniwa considered for a moment, then reached out and refilled his cup. He placed it at the edge of the table, for the shadow-turned-troll to take. She did with the same indolent smile she always gave him, and drank slowly, relishing the taste. The leader of the laughsassins was not like her kin. She had to have some of herself left, to lead. Taniwa liked her, which in itself was monumental, and more than that, he liked her best among those very few trolls he tolerated, because she was mild and efficient and clever enough to give answers and ask no questions. 

“Hayfax has broken her vows,” she said, grim and amused, all at once, “she’s taken a matesprit from her own troops. Nothing too special, his real talents are not the kind you show in public. He’s strong enough to be an Orphaner, but he’s clearly the weakest of the lot.” She paused significantly. “Weak enough Cronus could take him, if pushing came to shoving. After that… Well.” 

“What a convenient state of affairs,” Taniwa exclaimed, sneering. She shrugged again. “Take the bottle, and see this through. I’ll give you a casket, after Garfit takes on the mantle.” 

“You need give me nothing, my Lord,” she replied, unruffled. “Duty fulfilled is its own reward.” 

“I know,” Taniwa said, snorting disdainfully, “but as my Heir is so fond of pointing out, I do still have some kindness left in me. Go.” 

And she went. 

  


* * *

  


Taniwa exiled them to the sea for a perigee. Perched on a pitiful raft, Cronus and Garfit laid back next to each other and took stock of what laid ahead. 

“He’s preparing for his last war,” Garfit mused darkly, running his claws over the scar on Cronus’ arm. “He doesn’t intend to survive it.” 

“So let the bastard die,” Cronus snorted, careless. “He’s lived long enough.” 

He’d been mad, at first, when Garfit had needled him into a fight and then forced him to take half the blame for the destruction they’d wrecked in the docks. He’d expected new scars on his face, from the ordeal, but instead Lord Imoogi had sent them out to the open sea, without supplies and a collection of poorly nailed planks that wouldn’t be called a boat by anyone sound of mind. But now he found it not quite as bothersome anymore, relishing in the chance to speak his mind, without servants and spies and laughsassins lurking everywhere. If he had to name it something, he’d name it freedom, and he realized with trepidation that now that he’d tasted it for the first time, he wasn’t in a rush to give it up. 

“He will not die without sorting out his affairs first,” Garfit said, sullen. “And Mehtar’s still the Heir.” 

“So?” Cronus laughed, reaching a hand to run his claws through Garfit’s hair and then ruffle it into a mess between his horns, because Garfit was vain and Cronus couldn’t help himself. “Mehtar would name you Lord before the flesh finished rotting away from Taniwa’s bones.” 

“And Lord Imoogi is well aware of that,” Garfit replied, tilting his head and reaching out to bite Cronus’ hand. He scoffed. “He’s not a fool.” He ignored Cronus’ glare and sighed, leaning in to tuck his head under his chin, annoyed at Cronus for allowing him that comfort and annoyed at himself for finding it comforting in the first place. “He means to make you an Orphaner.” 

Cronus sat up abruptly, dislodging Garfit and nearly smacking his head on the thick canvas hiding them from the glare of the sun. 

“ _What_.” 

There was no greatest honor, for a seadweller, than to have one’s prowess and strength recognized enough to be given such a hallowed, sacred task. It was true Orphaners kept no quadrants, held no titles and received no honors, but only because anything else was lesser and insignificant compared to their duty. Cronus had grown up in the Seat, where Orphaners kept their castle in the opposite side of the bay from the Empress’ own. He’d grown up watching them come and go, reporting to the Empress – and Lord Imoogi, when the Empress was otherwise occupied – their armor gleaming in the moonlight, their capes billowing threateningly behind them. It was a ruthless, terrible fate, and he couldn’t quite understand the disdain in Garfit’s voice at the prospect. It was the first time he’d been interested in anything Lord Imoogi had in store for him. 

“I’m not the only one who thinks I should be Lord,” Garfit said, wrinkling his nose at Cronus’ incredulous stare. “Sheryn offered to pledge to me, and proved it by sharing Lord Imoogi’s plans.” 

“Who the fuck’s Sheryn?” Cronus asked, trying and failing to wrap his head at the idea of him taking the mantle of Orphaner. 

“The Lady Commander of the laughsassins,” Garfit arched an eyebrow defiantly. 

“Lord Imoogi is the leader of the laughsassins,” Cronus said, without thinking. 

“No,” Garfit grinned wickedly, “he _commands_ them, he’s not one of them. And he doesn’t know them as well as he thinks he does. Sheryn doesn’t approve of Mehtar as Heir, and would much rather see me holding the title when dear old Lord Imoogi sees fit to keel over and die.” 

“Fair enough,” Cronus said, though his tone was uncertain still, “but why are you pissing yourself at the idea of me being an Orphaner?” 

“How does one become an Orphaner, Cronus?” Garfit asked, taunting. 

“By killing one,” Cronus replied, frowning. 

“And what do you think would happen, if you killed the wrong one and another killed you in revenge?” 

“You’d lose your— _ah_.” 

Garfit smiled grimly. Cronus wasn’t stupid. Not entirely. Not always. There was nothing stupid, in the thunderous scowl in his face, the promise of violence in his eyes. His contempt for Lord Imoogi might even rival Garfit’s, at that moment, for trying to offer him a poisoned dream. 

“I would avenge you,” Garfit said, unnecessarily, “and in doing so, I’d take the mantle. Which would then leave me unable to take that title or any other. Mehtar would be Lord, uncontested, for better or for worse. Rather worse, I’d say.” 

“Taniwa is a fucking jackass,” Cronus muttered with feeling, baring his teeth. 

“He is,” Garfit chuckled, and leaned in to kiss the corner of Cronus’ scowl. “But he’s not getting his way.” 

“You’re the youngest, though,” Cronus said suddenly, pulling away with his scowl intact. He added, as Garfit’s expression darkened: “the best suited for the title, but still the youngest regardless. Even if Mehtar declined in your favor, the Empress might not allow it.” 

“The Empress has no say in the succession of the Lord Paramount,” Garfit snapped, scowling himself. 

“The Empress is pissed as fuck because her Empire is splintering into war, she won’t take kindly to being told that.” Cronus swallowed hard. “You didn’t see her kill the Heiress, you don’t want that wrath aimed at you.” 

“I am the best choice,” Garfit said, arrogant and proud, “she’d learn to see it, in time.” 

“Best if she learns to see it your way, without a choice on the matter,” Cronus shrugged, and smiled grimly when Garfit stared. “Lord Imoogi has to go, but so do your brothers.” 

“You would have me kill my kin?” Garfit asked incredulously, staring as Cronus shrugged. “My own flesh and blood?” 

“If you’d rather I didn’t kill them myself,” Cronus taunted cruelly, smirk wide. And then, because he was a bastard and clearly Garfit wasn’t questioning his love for him enough already, he added: “Of course you could always kill _me_ and claim your lordship that way.” 

“You’re an evil creature, Cronus Ampora,” Garfit said, not without rancor. 

“Well, I have to be,” Cronus laughed, smug and careless and terrible, “we both know you only keep me around to make yourself look good by comparison, and you’re not very easy to love, my dear.” 

  


* * *

  


They did not speak about it, when they made their way back to the Seat. Instead they taunted and fucked and acted like they had never left at all. The war broke out, as Garfit had known it would, and it swept the North hard enough that he was sent over as reinforcement, to aid Mehtar in his task. Lord Imoogi watched him go dispassionately, suspecting nothing. Probably. It was madness they planned, but careful, conscious madness: they would not take any risk. Cronus would remain in the Seat and be himself to the most obnoxious extreme he could, and Garfit would go out and prove himself worthy of the title he planned to buy with his brothers’ blood. 

“The North does not agree with you, sweet brother,” Garfit said as he entered Mehtar’s quarters in the fortress he’d taken for his own. “The Lords of the North don’t love you, they’ve complained bitterly to the Empress, about how you forced them to open their doors to their peasants and their slaves, the last dark season.” 

“The North can suck on my bulge,” Mehtar snarled, a garish ghost of the kindhearted troll that had been sent to pacify the land. “I have half a mind to fall on this stupid sword just to be done with this.” 

_That’d probably be kinder than what I have in store for you_ , Garfit thought and instead smiled at his brother. 

“Well, you can’t die while I’m here,” he said, with a straight face, “Lord Imoogi would never forgive me.” 

Garfit set out to learn the ins and outs of the North, which Mehtar knew well, because he was not incompetent, just ill-suited for his task. He took over the brunt of the unpleasantness, so his brother could breathe and relax and remember who he’d been, before. 

And then all it took was a swift, decisive thrust, and Mehtar fell, a surprised look on his face as he died, sword buried deep in his gut. Garfit found hollowness inside him, instead of guilt, when he looked into his brother’s eyes. 

He filled it up with the stench of burning flesh, when he torched the North from coast to coast after he named the most obnoxious and treacherous Lord of the North as Mehtar’s killer and used that to justify his own brand of peace. The war would head to the South, carried on by the survivors he’d been careful to spare without giving away he was sparing them, but the North would not trouble the Empress for a good century or two, not after Garfit was done with it. 

He allowed himself to cry, when he went home, his tasks complete, but told no one, not even himself, why he cried. 

  


* * *

  


Cronus had done his part, by the time Garfit returned, but he’d done it the way he always did everything: on his own terms. He wore the armor and looked fearsome and terrible in it, a far cry from the stubborn, reckless boy in greys and black. The cape was ridiculous and monstrous, but Garfit reluctantly admitted it suited him very well. Cronus was ridiculous and monstrous, himself, after all. 

“You’re not dead,” Garfit said tonelessly, squinting as Cronus showed off the tools of his new office. 

“Not yet, no,” Cronus replied, eyes dancing with mischief. 

“But you’re an Orphaner.” Garfit found himself sitting down, lest he fell to the ground, laughing in despair. 

“Yes,” and because Garfit was obviously not going to let it go, Cronus added: “Killed them in the wrong order, so now there’ll always be one less Orphaner, than there used to be.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Garfit snarled, reaching for something to throw at his head and settling on a cup, half empty. 

“Yes,” Cronus laughed, letting the cup bounce harmlessly off his armor, “but an idiot that’s very difficult to kill, as it turns out.” 

“Remind me again why I love you,” Garfit said, and meant: remind me again why I’ve killed for you. 

“Gladly,” Cronus said, and then fucked Garfit until neither could stand. 

The guilt remained absent, even after they ate and fucked again, and Garfit endeavored not to think about it. 

  


* * *

  


“Your Heir is dead,” Garfit told Lord Imoogi, when the mourning had ended, and the old Lord didn’t look quite as haunted anymore. 

He asked without actually asking, not because he thought Taniwa would consent or because he wished to spare Utheyr, but because it was expected of him. Garfit had learned early, to use others’ expectations of him against them, and found it surprisingly easy to apply that philosophy to Lord Imoogi as well. 

“No,” Taniwa snarled, glowering at him like a feral dog, composure cracked so deep it was crumbling by the night. 

Garfit bowed, and felt no remorse. 

  


* * *

  


There was no love lost, between the Retainer and Lord Imoogi, and after sweeps of service, even less between her and Utheyr. Garfit took the jadeblood slave with him, when he went to inform his brother of Mehtar’s passing. He was appropriately contrite and saddened about it, when he broke the news. Utheyr seemed confused, at first, at the notion of their brother being dead. But he recovered before Garfit could decide to spare him. 

He spat on the ground and rejoiced at the thought of not having to serve his brother once their Lord died. 

Garfit carried Utheyr’s taunts in his mind, bounced them from side to side inside his skull, as he presented the jadeblood to the Retainer and offered to leave her at her disposal for the duration of his stay. Utheyr’s smug, foolish notions that Mehtar’s death meant the title would go to him in the end fueled his tongue, as he spoke sweetly to the Retainer, laying on thick the praise and the admiration and all those things she seldom heard from trolls not bound by oath to serve her. 

There was no love lost, between the Retainer and Lord Imoogi, but Garfit intended to change that, once he took the title. 

Half a sweep later, when news came that Utheyr had had the most terrible accident and ended up eaten alive by feral drones, Garfit knew the Retainer shared his willingness to make amends and let the old slights die with the old Lord. 

  


* * *

  


“And what the hell do you think you’re doing here?” 

Cronus gathered all his courage – he wasn’t a lanky boy pretending to be something he wasn’t anymore, he was a fucking Orphaner and he would act like it, no matter what – and stepped further into the block. Faced with the loss of his children, Taniwa had drunk until he’d been well and truly gone. And then he’d raged and rampaged through the length of his quarters, in a terribly uncharacteristic display that had sent all servants scurrying away, fearing for their lives. 

“Garfit thought you wouldn’t welcome his presence, my Lord, he’s gone to the Southern Capital, to gather a measure of the war while you mourn,” Cronus explained, shrugging. “But he did not think you should be alone, at a time like this.” 

“You did this,” Taniwa said, standing in the middle of the wreckage of his rage, eyes hollow, “you are the ruin of my house and the downfall of my name.” He glowered, but no matter how much Cronus tried, he couldn’t see the terrifying Lord anymore. Only an old man, withered away to nothing, holding onto spite to keep him going. Taniwa’s was no longer the face of Lord Imoogi, in his mind. “It is because of you, that my line has crumbled.” 

“You still have him,” Cronus heard himself saying, cavalier. He’d fought and conquered many monstrous beasts, since he took the mantle of Orphaner. Try as he might, Taniwa no longer scared him and would never scare him again, Cronus realized with cruel glee. “Your line is not yet over.” 

“I will kill him,” Taniwa snarled, and the entire castle shook with his wrath as violet lightning crackled along his limbs, “and then I will kill you, slowly, painfully, over many sweeps, until I find another, worthy to salvage my line.” 

“He loves you,” Cronus said, startled to realize the words were true, “he has never loved anyone more than you. You’ve always been too busy criticizing his love for me, to notice his love for you. He would make a magnificent Lord.” 

“And you would stand by his side, yes? Always,” Taniwa sneered, tilting back an empty cup and glaring at it when he realized it. Cronus reached out, fearless, and took the cup from his hand. He went to refill it, even as Taniwa hurled more abuse his way. “The Dragon Lord stands alone, shoulders his burden alone. He needs no flattering whores at his side.” 

“Not a whore any longer,” Cronus taunted, careful not to spill the wine as he offered to Taniwa. “Never really a whore, truthfully. Whores get paid, Lord Imoogi,” he smirked, teeth bared, “but now I am a Lord, of my own doing. Lord Commander of the Orphaners.” 

“Lord of nothing,” Taniwa hissed, snatching the cup at long last, drowning it in one go, “worth nothing. I’d kill you now, but you haven’t learned the true depths of your crimes. I’d—“ 

Taniwa trailed off, a queer look on his face. Cronus watched impassively as his expression shifted and twisted, understanding dawning as he recognized the soft aftertaste under his tongue. 

“Foolish boy,” he said, swaying and refusing to retch, even as he felt blood gathering in the back of his throat, “the Empress will flay you for this. Don’t think your crime will go unnoticed.” 

“What is there to notice, Taniwa?” Sheryn asked, materializing from the shadows on the far wall, before Cronus could put forth a sneer of his own. “The entire Seat saw the Orphaner fleet depart before the moons finished rising over the horizon, two nights ago, their Lord Commander at the helm of the largest ship.” 

For a moment, Cronus feared the old man would burn himself out destroying the entire castle – and them along with it – before he died, as he reared back like a cobra preparing to strike. But then his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and his expression traded its fury for resignation. 

“He will be a terrible Lord,” Taniwa laughed, choking on blood as he struggled to keep upright despite the poison all but melting his insides by the second. 

“Maybe,” Cronus sneered, eyes dark and cruel, “but he’ll still be a better Lord than you.” 

Taniwa did not answer, because Taniwa was dead; defiant and still standing. 

But dead all the same. 

  


* * *

  


“The Dragon Lord, Lord Paramount of the Alternian Empire,” the herald by the door announced, voice loud and clear, silencing the hall as all eyes turned as one to the figure standing next to him, “Garfit Imoogi.” 

Garfit could not look more different than Taniwa, when he walked into the throne room. He was clad in white and violet and gold, flowing fabric and ornate trinkets in his hair. Cronus watched him, from the privileged place where his fellow Lords sat, but did not share their surprise. He’d seen Garfit get dressed for this audience, after all, had even helped him put the finishing touches to make sure everything was perfect. The murmurs were half snide, half astonished. No one came to the Empress’ hall dressed well enough to match her, out of fear it might offend her. All trolls abhorred fashion, in public at least, keeping their best clothes for the privacy of their own walls. But Garfit was not any troll, and Garfit had already decided the kind of Lord he wished to be. 

He walked along the corridor with an unhurried dignity that Cronus knew only too well, but no one else had been allowed to know before, when he hid it under the yoke of his Ancestor’s law. He bent down to one knee, when he reached the steps before the Empress’ throne, bowing far lower than any Lord strictly had to, and yet somehow did not seem servile when he did. 

“Tragedy has struck harshly at your House, boy,” the Empress said, sneering. “I know you were never meant to serve me like your Ancestor did.” 

“My House lays in ashes at your feet, my Empress,” Garfit said, not looking up, not minding the whispers and the stray, poorly muffled laughs. He and Cronus were the youngest trolls in attendance, and while Cronus had already proven himself immune to mockery, Garfit’s position was far more precarious. It was no small thing, to be Lord Paramount; fools would try to use his age to undermine him. Cronus looked forward to watching them fail and realize the true depth of their mistakes, when they did. “But that only means I will have to rebuild it stronger than it was. I was not meant to have the honor of serving you, but I am a survivor, and I did not survive by chance.” Cronus stared intently at the Empress’ face, cataloguing every slight change in her expression. “Forgive me, your Highness, but I will not strive to serve you like my Ancestor did.” Garfit looked up then, smiling in the face of the Empress’ narrowed eyes and the suddenly oppressive silence all around them. “You deserve better than that, and so long as I carry this honor I received by fate, not by choice, you shall have nothing less from me.” 

“You offer me words,” the Empress said, eyebrows arched, and the Lords surrounding Cronus shifted and leaned in, expectant. “I have no use for words.” 

“Command me, your Highness,” Garfit rebuked, standing up at last, and Lords twittered around Cronus, terrified and outraged at his insolence, “and I shall offer you deeds to go with the words.” 

The Empress studied him carefully, taking her time to think and ponder and consider. She had been fond of Taniwa, forever amused by his stern seriousness and his callous contempt for trollkind as a whole. Taniwa had been loyal, beyond a doubt. Taniwa had built her Empire for her, every step of the way, and his word had been the only word she’d never questioned or resented, since the crown had been placed on her head. 

And now Taniwa was dead. 

She had known, of course, that he would not live forever. She was cruel and petty by nature, and she owned to it without shame, but she wasn’t cruel enough to wish that fate upon him. He’d done his service, far beyond what his service required, and he deserved his rest. He’d gone the way she always taunted him he would, drinking himself to death out of grief at the loss of his children. And now the sole survivor of those children was before her, making a statement with his appearance – though she hadn’t decided yet, what that statement meant – and offering himself to her with pride. Taniwa had offered himself with kindness, and sweeps at her service had poisoned that kindness into bitterness. She wondered what this boy’s pride would shrivel into, when all was said and done. 

She had known Taniwa, and known him well. She did not know the child standing before her. She narrowed her eyes and decided to find out for herself. 

“The war annoys me,” the Empress drawled, unrelenting, “it’s far beneath my notice and yet my Lords keep bringing it up. See they do not pester me about it anymore.” 

The Lords went very, very quiet, except for Cronus, who snorted loudly at that and refused to look repentant for it, when he found himself subject to many glares. The Empress paid him or the others no mind at all, her attention focused on Garfit and the amused tilt of his lips. 

“It shall trouble you no more than the war in the North, your Highness,” Garfit promised, bowing low. 

The Empress frowned. 

“There is no war in the North.” 

Garfit smirked, expression smug, and said nothing. The moment Cronus heard the Empress laugh, he knew they’d won. 

“Go, then,” the Empress said, amused. “Go and do your duty, for the glory of the Empress and the preservation of the Empire.” 

Garfit bowed low again, low enough to press his forehead to the ground. 

“Thus I serve,” he said, and despite his posture, the words echoed clearly across the hall, “and may the throne always sit in the Dragon’s jaws.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Quote at the beginning by J. R. R. Tolkien's _The Hobbit_.
> 
>  
> 
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